


Grave Thoughts

by Pixial



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Other, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixial/pseuds/Pixial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bit weird to be looking at your own grave, Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grave Thoughts

There was a grave on the hill littered in the debris of mourning. Flowers lay forlornly on the headstone, obscuring the name and dates engraved on it in an attempt at eternity. The cemetery was closed, the moon rising in the sky to bathe the world in its forgiving light, but still a single visitor remained kneeling down before it and gently brushing a lily aside with a meticulous hand. Respect, he thought as a dim red light took in pale flowers someone had carefully laid down on the stone. Respect, but not for the interred, but for those who mourned him. 

After all, the man honored by this memorial deserved nothing. He’d failed everything he’d ever worked for. Because of his weakness, the world’s greatest achievement was nothing but a whisper on a politician’s lips and a bad taste lingering in the remaining halls of law and order. Overwatch had been a beacon of hope, the hall of heroes and saviors, and now its members were ordered to stand down or be hunted as criminals.

The grave’s visitor would be number one on that list, but everyone thought he was dead. It was touching, he thought, picking up a lily between gloved fingers, studying it through the lense of his visor. It was beautiful, delicate, or so he assumed. It wasn’t as though he was looking at the real thing, just the facsimile his visor created and sent images of to his brain. The same bomb that had destroyed his Overwatch had taken his sight in the a single blow. Now he had to depend on a fancy camera to see, and said fancy camera monitored and listed the genus and species of the lily without prompting.

Someone had cared enough to leave a bouquet of _zantedeschia aethiopica_ on his grave. How sweet.

He didn’t want sweet, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw the flower down in a display of disgust, instead gently setting it back with its brethren. He wondered who’d set them here; he’d been thought dead for years now. There shouldn’t be anyone left who thought he mattered. 

Which was galling, he had to admit. All he’d ever wanted was to matter, to do great things. _Be a hero._ And instead, the world had turned on him and blamed him and his for every little thing. And that wasn’t even the _first_ betrayal he’d endured in his tenure of commander.

But he wasn’t going to think about him. That. Wasn’t going to think about that. He was just here to pay his respects before tracking down the next name on his far-too-short list.

The beam of a flashlight shined his way, briefly illuminating the world. Security. He’d been here too long. The night guard strode up to him, young fellow. Still had the veneer of innocence shining in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir,” came the light tenor. The boy was trying for the professional, polite approach. Respectful, but firm. The dead man understood that. “But I’m afraid the grounds are closed. I have to ask you to--”

“Sorry, son,” the visitor spoke. “Lost track of time.” He stood and nodded diffidently before turning and setting his feet on the path to the gate. No sense in getting grumpy at the interruption. The lad was just doing his job. He could respect that. He had a job to do, too.

And as the guard’s light followed him down the path and through the entrance to lock it behind him, the man once called Jack Morrison decided it was time he got back to work. Let the dead stay dead. The past didn’t come back, no matter who grieved it. All that was left was to deliver the next blow in the war.

And that was a job best left to a soldier.

**Author's Note:**

> Written partially to see if writer's block can be defeated, but also intended to be the opening post on a roleplaying blog.


End file.
